I go through the day as happy as can be,
only to lie in bed at night, wondering why I do not have your face next to mine.
—  Lukas W. // Alone in the dark

you’re lying in bed at 2 am watching snapchat stories and you don’t wish that those people were you, you don’t feel like you’re missing out.

you’re driving home and the radio’s turned up because you want to sing along as loud as you can, not because you need it to drown out your thoughts.

you’re talking to a girl you know, laughing at some inside joke and it dawns on you that at some point the two of you became friends.

this is the feeling you’ve been waiting for. this is why you’re alive. there was a point to it all.

—  happiness
And love is
not a song
you always
sing out loud—
inside a cave
that surrounds
your heart—
love is
as silence
as the dark
lonely night,
where no one
will hear it,
where no one
will echo it back.
—  ma.c.a // Silent Feeling
And then there are nights like these, when my body craves the touch of another. No need for sex, just a head against my chest and a hand to hold. Another heartbeat to feel besides my own, while the night carries on unbothered and the rain pitter-patters against the windowpanes, calmness and warmth being the only things allowed in our space.
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Once A Day (270/366)

it was never Icarus’ intention
                 to make a myth of himself -

let the boy fly

let him leave footprints of a boy who
               held his breath and
                                             loved a god

let him make a home in the
                                             s u n.

—  still the wings refuse to stretch further | b.s.h
I will write you letters which I will never send , I will write you poems which you will never read , I will tell stories about you which you will never know , I will miss you and break a little and you will have no idea , its funny how sometimes we can love and die over someone so silently.
—  Letters for you #1 // Kriti.G
Thirty days of flyers. Thirty days of prayer and deli platters. Thirty days of missing. Thirty days, and dead the whole time.

FROM THE VAULT: Sean Patrick Mulroy - “Sestina for the Murdered Girl” (IWPS 2015)

Performing during prelims at the 2015 Individual World Poetry Slam. Help bring Button to you.

you weren’t born in a thunderstorm and
heavens didn’t shake when you let out your first cry,

but you learned how to make lightning out of nothing
and you shook the heavens all on your own.

so maybe you weren’t born into a crown,
maybe you’re as soft as the first day of spring and
maybe your smile can stop wars,
maybe you don’t think you have it in you to keep fighting.

but here is what i know:

roses grow thorns,
nature is kind but doesn’t forgive,
and you are a warrior even though sometimes it hurts to breathe.

—  you are what you choose to be, Lana Rafaela
It is on cold, dark nights like these that I imagine your breath on my neck, your hand on my stomach, your lips on my cheek, your heart in the palm of my hand.
—  I miss you
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with a broken promise and a shattered heart and me picking pieces of myself up off the floor. 
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with faded dreams and lost faith and the inability to love again. 
My story doesn’t end with you. My story doesn’t end with darkness and anger and resentment, with bitter cynicism and weary skepticism. 
My story doesn’t end with you, with the boy I thought I loved walking out the door and never looking back.
My story doesn’t end with you.
—  f.a.w